Sophistication stems from subtle simplicity
So stop sophisticating simplicity

Silken streams of sense swirl silver shadows deep
Simplifying the sophisticated, in slumbering silence keep

When I had my sight on you,
it was as good a currency
I spent on my first dance.  
There was an element of reluctance,
my feet glued to the floor,
my body, a deflated balloon
chasing after its soul.
You were more than a plant
draped in petals and perfumed with seasons of romance,
you were a garden of light,
enticing weary butterflies
of this world.
So when I pawned enough courage
to pluck your name out of those ripe lips,
I locked it away
so I could relish rolling my tongue
and tapping my teeth
and watching my spirit twirl to its syllables
saying it as if I were singing.
Driven by madness,

Bewitched with confusion,
Feverish with longing
Come after the quaint question,
“Am I beautiful?”
Or
“Does this dress suit me?”
Or
“How do I look?”
—am I ever worthy to answer such divine a question?

Not that there is a scarcity of vocabulary encased in dictionaries and thesaurus,
but perhaps the definition undermines the word.
For if I could,
if permitted to be brazen
and to be bold
to cross the border
defining our reality,
your beauty
has invented every beautiful thing
known to me.

Every poem,
on paper penned,
on spoken stage, uttered
on music, winged;
Every song on battlefield charged,
until the mind is intoxicated,
into ears poured
—beautiful is not worthy an adjective to sit or stand before your name.

You are to me,
what blues is to King and Clapton,
what a ring is to Sméagol,
what the truth is to Neo,
what sea is to a fish,
perhaps a hiding place
perhaps it is a galaxy of their own,
though in the end,
bare nakedly, you are the meaning.

“Are you beautiful?”
Yes, beyond what my eyes could touch.

Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones